I wrote a letter to berate
My two brothers for their state,
With conscience clear and liberate
I blame them for my own estate,
but ever an ancient song returns
And sears the conscience as it burns_
The harp is active with melody
Expressing my age old malady
But sticking to its old refrain
Singing its message clear and plain
‘Be sure your sins will find you out!’
To which we answer ‘Look within not round about’
The quick retort we hear her shout
‘Rubbish, Rubbish Rubbash!’